Wearing My Big Girl Pants…

As I’ve aged, I’ve discovered one thing to be perfectly true about myself. My mind has a tendency to wander. Have you seen that new kitchen gadget that’s supposed to make your life that much easier? Umm…actually, wander is probably too gentle a description to describe how my self-deprecating, and still un-medicated brain cells work. Racing is probably the right word. Yep, that bitch races like she’s part of an AARP NASCAR event on steroids.  No control, and most certainly…NO filters!

But I don’t worry too much about it. First off, I’m too old to care what people think, and secondly, I know people now, and my new best friend just happens to be a bail bondsman, so I pretty much say or do whatever I feel like saying or doing now!  If you’re menopausal, you will completely understand why you should have people like this on the same page as you.

Anyway, the other day I was busy plucking one of those stray eyebrows that seems to always pop up in several places on my chin, and on my other chin, when all of a sudden, out of the blue, my mind took a turn and raced backwards to that time in my life where this kind of grooming was for old broads unheard of.

I was remembering when I was that ‘skinny, perfect, glamo-rama’ girl. Holy crap! That was the greatest time of my life!

Back then, in my almost famous era, I never, ever considered leaving the house unless I was camera ready, just in case the paparazzi got wind that I was out and about!  Those days were spectacular!

I was in my twenties then. I had the world by the balls, and let me tell you…those balls were enormous. I could juggle them and never miss a beat. My boobs were perky and there was only one level to my chin and my butt. I wore crop tops, short shorts, mini skirts and, O.M.G. fuck me high-high-heels!  Of course, this last item may very well be the reason I can longer tippy-toe around today!

Back in that day…

…my thigh’s never rubbed together.

…my underarms never jiggled.

…my ass never undulated.

…my stomach was as flat as a washboard.

…my skin was taut and sprung back like a rubber band.

…and my neck, well, it’s something I usually prefer not to talk about, but back in the day…oh, it was flawless.

I had no skin crevices yet, no barnacles springing up, no wrinkles, no age spots, and no cellulite…nada! I was perfect in every way. (Of course, this is what I tell myself now as I look back on the journey to where I am today.)

I never once feared reflective surfaces during those early years. As a matter of fact, I was actually drawn to them, relentlessly, because back then, that was my job. You know, being beautiful, being on television, being photographed on a daily basis. I spent every waking moment working diligently towards keeping myself in my ‘perfection’ mode! How I looked back then was my moneymaker. I was a model/actress and eventually, after my daughter hit middle school, I had proudly moved into M.I.L.F mode! (If you don’t know what that is, I suggest you Google it!)

But here I am today. All of a sudden, thirty years have flown by. Lot’s of things have changed, relocated or…umm…nope, every thing has pretty much relocated. It’s then I realize that, when I see someone staring at me now, my inner ego springs to attention and I find my hand automatically going to my chin first (to check for gangly strays) and then to my upper lip because I may have left my humble domicile without shaving that small mustache that’s taken up residence between my nose and upper lip. And if that’s all okay, I then check to make sure that the girls are safe and sound in my bra because I’ve caught them trying to sneak out the side of it every so often because I’m so damned cheap now. I still try to wear my old bra’s that contain not one stinking thread of spandex in it, so I completely understand why the girls doth protest on occasion. It keeps life interesting, that’s for sure.

These days, working in and through the fucking fantastic menopause phase, everything has changed about me, including my demeanor. I can clear a room in less than five seconds if my hormone level has taken a dive. My wrinkles laugh lines have become deeper, and I can now actually, truthfully, answer that age-old question of ‘do your boob’s hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow’? And the answer to that my friends is…YES, YES, YES, YES…they do…and I can!

I have also discovered that my body had lost all of its moisture producing abilities, which sometimes proves embarrassing. The other day I had lunch with a friend. When I arrived at the table she reached out to touch my pants and asked me if they were corduroy. I had to admit to her that, NO, they were not, it’s just the sound my vagina makes now when I walk because I sometimes forget to use a vaginal moisturizer. Bitch please! She’s the same age as me. She should know better than to assume the noises my body makes now are not due to costume malfunctions.

As for the elasticity of my skin, well, that’s also gone to hell in a hand basket. Here’s a perfect example of how bad it is. Last week I got out of bed, walked down the hall to the bathroom and when I got there, I realized only one of the girls had come with me. I guess that my husband, at some point during the night, had rolled over on top of the other one, so yeah, the bitch was still snuggled up underneath him somewhere. I had to sit there on the toilet, bracing myself with both hands on the wall just in case he happened to roll over and free her before I peed and got back into bed.

Oh yeah! Menopause is grand. Wearing my big girl pants is mostly fun!

All in all, when my estrogen patch has been safely installed somewhere on my groin, life is pretty damned good. My kids are still alive (only because I discovered my hormone deficiency early on)! My husband still loves me warts and all, and my dog? Well, bless his heart. He still nose butt’s me in the ass after I’ve been gone all day, even though my gastro problems have grown exponentially during this sacred phase of my life!

Yep, I’m a big girl now. Attitude is everything, right?

Communication Is…

…key in every relationship!

It doesn’t matter whether you’re talking about a personal, social, or business relationship, because if you don’t carefully word what is about to squeeze out of your lips, you’re probably going to get screwed.

What you say…better mean exactly what you mean, because words can be misconstrued so easily these days.

If you really want your partner to listen to every word you say…talk in your sleep. Most men will wake to the slightest verbage coming from a woman’s lips once they’re under the covers.

I’ve had a few beneath the duvet, sweaty, roll-about, night-night conversations that have only served to confuse my husband.

“Run….RUN…” (could simply mean I’m about to let one rip, or, the dog has gotten himself into yet another predicament!)

“Touch it and pull back a bloody stub…” (could mean just what it says aka: ‘Hands Off’…or…it could be a prolific hint not to wake me up!)

“That’s on sale, fantastic!” (all men hope to hear this come from their woman’s lips!)

“Oh…..Yes…yes….yes!” (this will keep them paralyzed as they wait for the rest, hoping you’ll whisper their name somewhere in the rest of that phrase.)

On the other, men usually respond best to eye-to-brain, or more likely eye-to-groin sensory tactics.

If you want your man to listen to you, just wear a low-cut top. For many years women have always complained that their man stares at them and never listens to them.

Sure…there’ll be no eye contact, but they’ll be mesmerised long enough to hear every word you say. I know this for a fact.

After years of being a cops and crime reporter, I realized this was the quickest way to ascertain many of the fine details about a case I’d be reporting on. The detectives would be mesmerized, completely enamored with the girls, and would pour their hearts out, which often times led to a phone call later asking me to delete certain information that should not be public yet! Yes, the girls can work their magic just about anywhere and anytime.

Funny thing though, if I ever asked any of these (mostly) male detectives what color my eyes were, they’d often reply, ‘black… with a hint of lace!’

Truthfully, when it comes to communication sometimes you think you’re talking to the wall.


Because sometimes you are talking to the wall.

For instance, if I ask someone if  they’re done with their dinner plate, they assume I’m waiting to get up and take it to the kitchen for them.

What that really mean is, get off your lazy damn ass and put it in the kitchen yourself!

Better yet, rinse it and put it in the dishwasher. If I wanted to be a maid, I’d go get a job at some luxury hotel who’d pay me to take your Goddamned plate, and I’d have access to all the free bedtime pillow-top chocolates as an added benefit to the job.

When I say WHAT during an argument, it does not mean that you need to answer. It probably means…you should stop talking. Or at least respond with one of three things.

“Honey, would you like to go out to dinner tonight?”

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look today?”


“Honey, let me get you another glass of wine!”

Get it?

When I ask if you have laundry, ditto!

Oh communication is definitely the key to every relationship!

Women love to pontificate about daily happenings even if they’re about completely mundane topics. We like the warm and fuzzy feeling it gives us as we toss about useful and totally ridiculous information.

Men on the other hand keep a cool front. That’s why men are so quick to fall into bed with a woman, even on the first date, because it will usually bring about silence. This is also probably why men fall asleep immediately after sex. Once they’re placated all bets are off.

So don’t believe that bullshit that he won’t respect you if you have sex on the first date.

The worst thing a man can say in the heat of it is C.A.L.M. D.O.W.N!

Not only will this escalate the problem, it will likely be the catalyst for your sleeping on the couch for the next week or so.

Calm down in layman’s terms is the same as saying ‘Shut The Hell Up!’

I’d use this cautiously if I were you. But, if you have the balls to use it, be prepared for the consequences!

‘Chill Out’ is also another verbage that could land you in the dog house…literally!

Women who are told to ‘chill out’ usually do. Meaning, there ain’t no light at the end of the tunnel if you’re expecting a little sum-sum later on. It could lead to a long cold winter in the bedroom.

Oh yes! Words are a funny thing, and not necessarily in a good way!


…are what separate the wild and wonderful from the pack.

Women today are a power to be reckoned with. We can rule the nest as well as we can wreak havoc on the world.

A new study recently released states that there’s ‘three new kind of women’ out there. Only three? Really?

Anyway, first up is the mid-twenties to mid-thirties INDEPENDENT women. She’s doing it her way. Her mantra is get out of my way, fuck with me and I’ll take you out, brainstorming, designer clothes wearing, stiletto capable, thong goddess, single, or single in a relationship kind of gal whose yet to plunge into motherhood.

You know her. She’s your best friend. Nothing’s off-limits. She’s taking the world by storm. She’s not your mom’s mom. She talks about everything from Tampax to Stocks and Bonds.

She is ‘Occupy The World Via Vagina!’

She’s driven by passion like no other. She’s not afraid of the big bad wolf because she is the big bad wolf. HER bite is far superior to her bark, she’s brainy enough and far more likely to utilize her womanly ways when needed to skirt, pounce, instigate, take by surprise, or render useless any one trying to stand in her way.

She can stop time simply by wearing an unpadded bra under her T-shirt on a cold day.

She’s gonna make it or break it so you’d better get out-of-the-way or she’s likely to plow right through you. She’s put off child-bearing in order to make her mark in the world. She’s curious and furious. She’s just as at home in the kitchen as she is in the corporate world.  She can flip flapjacks as easily as she can flip you off should you try to become a roadblock. She’s that ‘don’t fuck with me, and no I don’t have a headache, I’m just busy’ kinda gal!

Love her, but stay the hell out of her way while she’s blazing the trail, because if you don’t, you’re likely to get left in the wake of her voracious appetite for life and all things wonderful.

Her flame will never be doused! This is her time to herd the cattle so to speak! She’s going to rock it until her maternal clock kicks in and says, okay, time to put a bun in the oven. But don’t think that that alone will stop her, make her dead in the water, because women like this cannot be turned off of their life by their birth canal! She’ll likely be finalizing a big business deal right up until that last push and then…….voila, she’s mom now! This doesn’t stop her, it just changes the game plan.

Second up is the mid-thirites to mid-forties Over Achieving Mom. Now, she too can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. The difference is, she’s still able to pay for the bacon herself. She’s still proving that she’s got life under control and can do it all.

She’s still in pretty good shape and has become furiously adept at disguising any remaining baby bulges that have lingered, because altering the worlds perception of her is NOT. AN. OPTION!  She’s the “Thanks Spanx” generation woman. She’s old enough to be comfortable letting it all hang out, but she’s competitive enough still to say ‘watch out world, I’m still here, still rocking it, don’t fuck with me, because even though she may be home flipping pancakes or frying eggs, she can still muster up enough strength to wrap the spatula around your bloody neck without missing a beat.

She’s likely the one to take this challenge for what it is. She’ll take advantage of her Mom-ness and market that just as easily as she’d market a new product. She’s still got it, and trying to fuck with that could lead to repercussions no man should or would want to suffer under. She’ll love you as easily as she could kill you. She’s mamma bear now, leader of the pack. Large and in charge. Having a vaginal birth put’s her at the front of the pack because she’d discovered that she can endure anything. She’s a train heading down the track, horn blaring, light’s flashing, and still has the ability to plow through anything that gets stuck on the track. She may slow down here and there, take a breath, enjoy the view, nap in the middle of the day, but when she’s on it……she’s ON IT!

And then…

She’s got it all. She’s achieved Goddess Level. She’s an Alpha Lover. She’s still got the bull by the horns and she’s not afraid to use them. She doesn’t care what you think. She’s survived work, children, and aging. No one’s opinion holds water to her. She’s as tech savvy as the younger generation, but is far ahead of the crowd because her insomnia allows her so much more computer time while the rest of the world is resting. She’s into the finer things of life yet has no problem dumpster diving for hidden treasures. She’s softened enough, sometimes literally, yet her will holds steadfast in that she can shine, stand out, flourish under any circumstance. She still does it her way no matter what.

She’s earned the badge of mid-life and devours it.

She’s already developing her second act. Her new self emerges with ease. She can take a day off when she wants because her train rolls steadily along. After all, she built the tracks herself.

She doesn’t have to push as hard as her earlier years. She’s set herself up in such a way that pressure is only something that a doctor checks. She’s got it all now. Work, family, love, money, friends. She’s become the Matriarch of her expanded world. She’s back at the helm and running her life smoother, slower, but with the same passion as always. She hasn’t forgotten either that she can still stop time with that unpadded bra and T-shirt. The T-shirt may have to be slightly longer to accommodate things that have moved south but she okay with that. She’s gonna rock it till there ain’t nothin left.


…when it comes to certain body parts.

My size issue is my ‘Large Canadian Breasts’! At least that’s how the hubby refers to them.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am in no way complaining! I sooooooo love the girls! They’re not to small, nor are they too big! They are the syrup to my waffles, the cream to my coffee, the…well, you get the point. We’re close, in every sense of the matter! They love to go out and they love to stay home. They like playing dress up as much as they like to swing about wild and free.

Other than my clothes always having to compensate for said ‘grande’ boobs so those designer tops don’t make me look like I’m in a constant state of pregnancy, the biggest problem I’ve encountered is, I always seem to have a bruise on the inside of my upper right arm, which I firmly believe, is caused by brushing my teeth twice a day without a bra on.

I have to admit though, watching a breast gyrate sideways (even if it’s mine) is far funnier than when it bounces from your chin to your belly button. That chaotic arc always makes me bite my tongue. I don’t like that! Nor. Does. Ms. DoubleChin!

Good news is, I’ve recently come to discover that there really is a reason to call them ‘fun bags’!

My next-door-neighbor is like the worlds laziest bastard on earth. The only way he breaks a sweat is by standing in the sun in a supervisory position. He hires people to do just about everything around his house. There’s always a truck of some sort idling away as they repair, renovate, replant, repaint, etc. etc!

But there’s one thing he actually did himself, and this is where the fun bags come it!

He installed several of those clap on-clap off  [‘THE CLAPPER”] devices in every room of his house, including (and this ranks highest on the lazy scale) his garage!

This I’ve discovered allows me to mess with him on a regular basis.

My bathroom window overlooks said garage, and when Girl #1 and my inner upper arm get going, I can here the door opening and closing. I’ve seen him out there.

In the dark.

Staring at the garage.

Scratching his head.

Wondering what the fuck!

Oh, I so love that I have this power.

Since his livingroom is also close to the window, I can turn his TV on and off at will. I can also offer a wake up call in the middle of the night. I get up in the wee hours of the morning and immediately brush my teeth. I figure I save him a bit of electricity because he doesn’t have to use an alarm clock anymore. I brush my teeth, voila, his bedroom light comes on. The only thing I have to be careful about is, I have to pace myself because these devices are just as easy to uninstalled. I do not want the ‘fun bags’ to go idle!

The other morning I almost got busted! 

Lazy ass gets up to go to the gym every day around 5:30 am. Even though I’m usually up hours before, I put off brushing my teeth till then. I stand there in the darkness of my bathroom and wait till he’s about 15 feet from the garage, I see him begin to raise his hands……and then I brush.


Up goes the door!

I wait for the reaction.

I have to see the look of astonishment on his face, and I can, because he’s standing in the ring of light from the motion-detector lights he had installed above his garage door a little over a week ago.

I can see him look around, trying to figure out why this keeps happening every morning since installing the device.

I have to cover my mouth to stifle my chuckling, which in turn makes me snort through my nose.

My Bad!

Guess my snort came out far louder than I anticipated. I see his eyebrow go up. I knew we should have sprung for those double paned windows when we remodeled.

His eyes start to roam over towards my property so now, I can’t move, because if I do then I risk detection. I hold my breath!

Then the unthinkable happens!

I don’t hear hubby coming down the hall to pee.

Suddenly the lights go on.



My boob and right arm are exposed. The tooth brush, which my lips have held in suspended animation, falls from my gaping mouth.

“What are you doing?” hubby asks when he sees me body slam myself against the wall next to the window.


“Why are you standing at the window half naked?”

“I’m brushing my teeth.”

He looks at my exposed boob and I see the glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Can I help you brush your teeth?”

“No. Thanks. I’m done.”

“Hey…Just tryin’ to be helpful.”

I watch as he trudges back towards the bedroom.

“Can you turn the light off on your way out?” I ask, my back still pressed against the safety of the wall.

There is no response. But his hand slides down the wall to the switch.

The room goes dark once again. I step towards the window and realize the moment has passed.  He’s gone!

The thrill is gone.

My boob is cold.

Oh well!

Tomorrow’s another day, right?

Facebook Friends…

…really, really piss me off sometimes. They spout off with their daily accomplishments like we should all give a shit.

Well, I’ve had it.

This letter is to my friend Ruth.


Did I just use your real name.


Sorry about that! It just kind of slipped out (on purpose).

From here on in the world will only know you as “The Gourmet Bitch…who works a gazillion hours a week, tends to her children and husbands needs, runs marathon’s, yet can still manage to rush home from a 14 hour flight after a business trip and whip up something that I would pay a lot of money for at one of fabulous eateries here in Los Angeles!


Well, fuck you very much!

This letter speaks for all the other women in the world who can’t, or don’t cook like you, or don’t want to cook like you, you desert serving bit……..

I digress!

Your updates on Facebook make me feel like a completely inadequate moron in the kitchen.

I stoled these from your page just to make my point!

“Just got home from New York. Busy Week. Great seeing and spending time with my family tonightEnjoyed eating dinner outside this evening since it was way too hot to eat indoors. Made Bourbon buffalo wings, corn on the cob, roasted summer vegetables, and peach cobbler for dessert!”

“I’ve been working hard this week. Did a marathon prep, flew to New York, Atlanta, Florida, San Francisco, Japan, Costa Rico, Bali, Australia, England, Paris, but was thinking about being in my kitchen the whole time. Got home late but needed to chill so I prepared grilled salmon in a shallot, garlic, wine, dijon mustard, and wine sauce. Served this with sauteedmushrooms, rice pilaf, and mesculen salad with mandarins and raisins. Mixed berries for dessert.”

“Just ran a 4000 mile marathon, couldn’t wait to get home. We celebrated the beginning of summer by having a family barbecue tonight on the patio. Turkey burgers with avocado, garlic fries, and corn on the cob were on the menu.”



First day of summer we also had a fiesta.  I served up two-day-old re-heated hot dogs because I hate throwing out perfectly good left overs. I also managed to use up all the little ketchup packages left over from Burger King runs! Finished off with a bowl of ice cubes, covered in chocolate syrup, with a ‘just about ready to toss‘ strawberry on top! My family believes me when I tell them I peel the berries for easier digestion.  The reality is, I can’t stand throwing them out just because they have a few little black spots on them here and there. Mm-mm-yummy!

Oh, and did I mention we used real cloth napkins instead of paper towels. My kids eyes lit up when the saw them because they know I only use them when I’ve gone all out. 

The ice-cube dessert was the piece de-resistance (and absolutely necessary)  because I’d accidentally spilled a bottle of hot sauce on the dogs before I threw them on the grill. Not talking B-B-Que either. You see, I found this amazing pan I can put on the stove. It adds those little grill marks so it looks like I’ve gone the extra mile for them. Before anyone actually gets to the kitchen after I bellow that dinner is ready, I rush outside, open and close the grill, shutting it loud enough for even my neighbors to here so the facade of grilling is what they’ll recall later in life when talking about my prowess as a Gourmet cook.

My children accepted years ago that gourmet cooking meant that that can of Chef-Boy-R-Dee came from the ‘special’ shelf at the grocery store.  

And then…….get this!

I recently hit the mother lode, when they announced they were adding a whole serving of vegetable to each can of Ravioli, Spagetti-O’s, and the rest of their gourmet’ line.

Not only did they love it, they really, truly appreciated the presentation.  Since they’re such fast food junkies, meaning they’ll eat anything that comes in a bag or box, I went to great pains to salvage dozens of take out bags from the trash. I spent countless hours getting the grease stains or ketchup off the bag so it would appear good as new.

Their familiarity of said bags has always made my job infinitely easier. You see, it really didn’t matter what I put inside. Whatever was in the bag was going to be Godhead in their stomach. My youngin’s would look at me like I was a Goddess in the kitchen!


My only mistake was friending them on Facebook!

This is not good.

They’ve seen your posts. Or rather, they’ve devoured your posts!

Now I have to really fucking cook because they sit in the kitchen with me, thank you very much!

The premise for this is that they want to spend more time with me now, just like you guys do. They want to help me. So much for my dreams about the empty nest! I can’t even have an empty kitchen now because of you!

As much as I like you I’ve no alternative but to un-friend you.



Getting Older…

…sucks sometimes.

Actually–it sucks all the time, right?

Now I’m not talking about your everyday normal shit like wrinkles or saggy skin, although those two particular things make me want to destroy every reflective surface on earth. We already know those things are going to atrophy as we age. They’re predictable and inevitable.

What I’m talking about is when your chassie starts altering itself…


Here’s my latest problem:

My damn hip tends to crack a lot as does my back, especially during sex. So, after much deliberation, I decided to bite the bullet and head off to see the chiropractor.

Now, I’m one of those people who hates to waste time, so I usually try to book the first appointment of the day. Easy in, easy out!

At 8:45 a.m. I pull into the parking lot. At 8:52 a.m. I walk in the door, sign in, then take the clipboard with the forms I’m asked to fill out. By 8:56 a.m. I return the clipboard to the lovely receptionist. She flips the page checking my cognitive prowess, then asks me to follow her. She leads me into an exam room, then tells me the ‘doctor’ will be in shortly. So far so good.

I sit down as directed and wait.

Then I wait, and wait, and wait some more.

This is BULLSHIT because, not only is the doctor late, I’m stuck in this crummy, dreary 5 X 5 room with nothing more to read than National Geographic’s from the 1970’s.

Rule #1: All medical offices should be required by the law of etiquette to provide current reading material…or be on fucking time!

Thirty minutes later he walks in with my chart in his hands.

“Good morning Mrs. Brown,” he says.

Well, YE-FUCKIN’-HAW, I think to myself.

My time is apparently not as important as his time.

We’ll see about that!

“Mrs. Brown?” he says again.

I decide to ignore him and continue reading about why Orangutans asses are  so red because we should all know the answer to this age-old question.

He clears his throat several times trying to get my attention.

“I should be done here in about 27 minutes.” I say checking my watch. “Why don’t you just have a seat doc. I’ll be right with you.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late. I had an emergency,” he says.

Yeah. I can see the emergency because he forgot to wipe the fucking cream cheese off the side of his face…asshole!

I finally acquiesce and put the magazine down.

“So. What is it you’re doing when your hip and back crack?” he asks.

I unbutton my pants and lower my zipper a few inches…

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

“Hey…you asked me what I was doing when my hip cracked, right? Just give me a second,” I say defending my actions.

“Wait just a damned a minute, let me get a nurse in here,” he says, his face turning a gentle shade of red. He slams his hand onto the button next to the door. Without missing a beat, he slides along the wall until he reaches the box of latex gloves, grabs a couple, retreats back to his spot by the door, then quickly dons said gloves.

I do not share with him that I’m only unbuttoning my pants because I’ve got one of those rip roaring errant gas bubble’s jetting around in my gut. You know the kind. It the one that settles right at the waistband of your pants and you need to relieve the pressure by any means possible or else that suckers gonna blow right then and there. It’s probably because I got up too early, drank far too much coffee that morning, and the shit, shower, and shave was not a fate-accomplis.

Regardless…I wait for his partner in crime.

I have to say though, I’m a little creeped out that he thinks I’d go there’ with him!


If I was going for that, I’d have chosen a much younger and better looking doctor. Perhaps even one that was more gynecologically adept.  Maybe even someone who had a little Chippendales experience under his belt.

This guy…NOT SO MUCH!


A few minutes later…enter Nurse Ratchet.


This nurse is like a wall sized condom.  Talk about your protective barrier! Sheeesh! This gal’s ankles have to be at least a size 22, and by the size of her bicep’s, it’s pretty apparent that she’s a definite gym rat.

She looks at me then back at the doctor.

“Where were we Mrs. Brown?” he says as though the formality of calling me ‘Mrs. Brown’ somehow protects him now that Nurse Ratchet’s standing between the two of us.

He’s still standing completely across the room though and he doesn’t look like he’s going to come any closer.

I’m thinking to myself this guys a real chicken shit. He’s a “doctor” for God’s sake. He must see all kinds of crazy stuff.

“So, when I twist like this…” I say rotating my hip. This of course makes my zipper undo a little more.

There’s no response. Nothing. Nada. Not even an ahem!

“Didn’t you hear that?” I ask.

“Hear what?” he says.

“My hip,” I say.

What?  This guy’s so fucking afraid I’m going to drop my pants or something that he’s completely forgotten why I’m here.

“Oh…No I didn’t hear it,” he says looking down at the floor.

“Well, maybe you should come a little closer, maybe put your hand right here so you can feel my crack.” I say.

“Um,” dribbles from his mouth as his face changes to a brighter shade of red as the words ‘feel my crack’ sinks in.

“DOCTOR, hellooooo…” I say, hoping to rein him back down from wherever his mind has drifted.

I glance at his groin just to make certain his pleasure center is still officially shut down.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” he says.

But he still doesn’t move.

Finally, Nurse Ratchet steps up to the plate for him and shuffles towards me. She pulls my pants down a little then puts her hand near my groin.


This woman should have ‘Ice Queen’ written on her name tag instead of…What? This does not look like a Cindy.

Now, I know there’s no rules about this, but there should be.

RULE #2: Medical practitioners should be required to warm up their hands or anything else that’s going to come in contact with your body!

“Okay, do it again, NOW,” she says. “I’ll feel your crack for him.”

I feel a little uncomfortable with the location of her hand, especially after noticing that she’s not wear a wedding band. And it’s no consellation when I spot the bad-ass tattoo peeking out of her short sleeved uniform.

“Actually, if you put your hand on my back, you’ll probably feel it better,” I manage to spit out as I continue to adjust to the temperature of her paw.

“Are you telling me how to do my job, ma’am?”


She doesn’t know me well enough yet to pull the ‘maam’ card.

I bite my tongue a little because I’m trying desperately to force the words in my head to stay there until she removes her hand.

Instead, I twist my body a little forcing the cracking of my bones to be noticeable.

“Did you feel it?” I ask hopeful that she will now remove the thawed paw.

“No,” she says.

She tells me to turn around so she can check me out from the back. I oblige.

She pulls my pants down a little and pushed my shirt up out of the way.

“Mmm!” she mumbles.

“I know,” I say. It’s obvious she thinks we’re soul sister now that she’s spotted my tattoo, my tramp stamp.

“Interesting choice,” she says as she runs her fingers down my spine towards ground zero. Interestingly enough though, her touch has become just slightly softer, as though she feels closer to me.

“Is that Canadian bacon?” she asks with a certain amount of perplexity in her voice.

“Indeed it is! I had it done many years ago after several shots of tequila. It was funny at the time but now…well, now it’s become permanent back fat, a tribute to my heritage,” I tell her. “My muffin top loves the company though.”

“Doctor, you should come and look,” she says, which causes my sphincter muscle to clamp down involuntarily.

“Why do you want him to see that?” I plead.

“I want him to see your back ma’am, not your unfortunate tattoo,” she says with a slight tone of indignation in her voice.


I know what she’s up to. This whole experience is quickly going to hell in a basket. I begin to rethink my position, that maybe I should just zip up and skidaddle, when I hear her say, ‘right there doc’!